Figuratively Speaking
by InsideOutlaw
Summary: Sometimes straight talk is hard to come by.


Two tuckered out horses kicked up small puffs of dust as they slowly jogged down the nearly deserted main street of Hopeless, Montana. With hats pulled down low, the riders guided the animals to a crude hitching rail in front of a thoroughly dilapidated building. An askew sign dangled from frayed ropes announcing the Bent Elbow Saloon. As one, the men dismounted and secured their horses before climbing rickety steps and pushing through a heavy oak door. Looks of surprise leapt to the men's faces as they took note of the boisterous crowd inside. The gloomy room was crammed full of mismatched, homemade furniture and every seat and bit of floor space was occupied by an unwashed body judging by the close, foul air that assaulted the newcomers' noses. Frowsy barmaids held trays over their heads and shoved their way through groping hands to deliver over-filled beer mugs to tables.

The dark-haired man glanced at his blond partner before roughly shouldering his way through the throng. It was slow going but the two men were determined to belly up to the bar and, after stepping on multiple toes, elbowing ribs and trading plentiful curses or apologies, the two men carved a path through flesh eventually arriving at a rough planked bar. A harried, sweat-stained man poured drinks, slopping beer out of a pitcher into a line of empty glasses already set up along the length of the bar. Eager hands snatched the libations then disappeared into the crowd as more men surged forward. When he reached the light and dark-haired partners the bartender tilted the pitcher towards their empty glasses but a gloved hand shot out and gripped his wrist. He glared up into ice-cold blue eyes and said, "If you ain't tipplin', get the hell out."

A grim smirk appeared on the dark-haired man's face. "Friendly sort, ain't you?"

"I ain't got time to be friendly."

The blond's grip tightened as the man tried to move past them. "We don't want beer. Give us a pair of overalls."

"Beer's free. Old Henry struck a vein today."

"I'm real tickled for Henry but we want two whiskeys," growled the blond.

"Show me your chink. I ain't havin' no one shoot the crow in this boodle." He glanced at the unruly crowd and shook his head.

The dark man with the fancy, silver-studded black hat fished out two bits and a twenty dollar bill. He tossed the coin down on the counter, but held onto the bill. "We're paying customers. Are you Bronc Hardy?"

The man's bushy eyebrows snapped together with consternation, but his eyes hungrily locked onto the cash while his hand pocketed the change. "Who's askin'?"

"Rembacker. This here's Hotchkiss," Heyes nodded towards Kid Curry. "We're friends of Wheat Carlson."

The storm clouds lifted from the man's visage and a filthy, gap-toothed smile lit his face. "That old owl-hoot! I ain't heard that name in a coon's age. Figured someone would've made buzzard food outta him by now. Man's as crooked as a Virginia fence. "

The Kid grinned back at Bronc. "Guess you really do know Wheat."

"We need some information and we're willing to pay," said Heyes, waving the twenty.

"Is there somewhere we can talk, private-like?" asked Curry.

Bronc nodded and yelled out to a scrawny man collecting empty mugs. "Delbert, take over for me! Sally Mae, make sure you tally every one of those drinks." A chubby, red-headed gal nodded back at him. Bronc untied his stained apron and stuffed it into his back pants pocket. The strings trailed down the back of his leg. "This way, gents." He led Heyes and the Kid past an unlit woodstove at the rear of the room and out the back door of the saloon. Bronc climbed a set of worn stairs that led to a second floor balcony where he stopped and turned to them. A row of windows cast a soft glow onto his back and through the dirty panes the Kid could see and, more importantly, hear, a different kind of business being conducted.

"You got somewhere a little more private than this?" asked Heyes.

Grinning, Bronc said, "Must be real special information if'n you want to keep that dry."

"Ain't a secret if everyone hears it," replied Curry.

"All right. I'll take you to my private office up on the roof." Bronc walked to the end of the balcony where a ladder stood propped up against an overhanging eave. He scrambled up the worn rungs with an agility belied by his girth. Heyes followed and then the Kid. On the flat roof, they found a scarred table surrounded by two mended chairs and a couple of overturned slop buckets placed next to the stovepipe from downstairs. When a fire was lit down in the saloon, the pipe would provide welcome warmth. A corked bottle of whiskey and a deck of dog-eared cards sat in the center of the table. Sliding into a chair, Bronc seized the bottle and yanked out the cork with his teeth. He took a long pull and held the bottle out to the Kid. "This is the good stuff, not that sheepherder's delight I'd have poured you downstairs."

Curry took a drink and smiled, nodding his agreement to the quality of the booze as he passed the bottle to Heyes.

"So how is ol' Wheat?" asked Bronc. "He was the best wheel-horse I ever had although a mite beef-headed. Still, he's loyal as the day's long."

Heyes snorted mid-drink, spraying speckles of whiskey across the table. He gestured at his throat and rasped, "Went down wrong."

"Hey now, don't be wastin' my fine neck oil. Here, gimme that." Bronc snatched the bottle. "Now fork over that dinero and tell me what you wanna know."

Clearing his throat, Heyes handed over the twenty dollar bill. "Wheat tells us you two robbed the bank in Buffalo a while back. That true?" He and the Kid had heard that the same bank had recently received a large shipment of gold from a nearby mine. When Wheat had discovered the gang's new target, he'd regaled them with boasts of the huge haul he and Bronc had made, assuring Heyes that his former partner was the perfect inside man for the job.

Bronc chuckled heartily. "That Wheat always was stringin' a whizzer, but better a tall tale than the sad truth. We tried. Lord, how we tried. Spent months workin' up a plan, had all the details, but we still come a cropper in the end. We was lucky to escape with only a few nicks in our hides. Almost baked our horses hightailin' it outta there. Weren't the first time one of our dogs wouldn't hunt, but it was the last time. Did he tell you how we ended up in cahoots? Ol' Wheat was a snoozer down in Texas. Imagine a big man like that thinkin' he could makin' a livin' stealin' hotel guests. The chucklehead tried to rob me blind while I was sawin' logs in the Beaumont down in Abilene. Caught him red-handed when his two hunnert pounds of lard hit that loose floorboard. Boy, was he surprised to find my lead-pusher up his nose. Lucky for him, I was of a larcenous bent myself. After we calmed down a mite, Wheat offered to paint our tonsils, so we went downstairs and tied more'n a few on. By sunup, I'd convinced him he was too damned big to be a sneak thief and he should throw in with me."

"How'd that work out for you?" smirked the Kid.

"Pretty good for a while, but Wheat had delusions of grandeur, as the fancy folks say. Kept pushin' for us to go big time. Now, me, I know my limits. I was a pennyweighter, you know. Started out in the camps, taking a little gold here, a little there, no one's the wiser. I made enough to squeak by and that was fine by me. Never did like unwanted attention. Now Wheat, Wheat's a different animal. He lives on blusteration. That boy could blow his own horn for hours. Trouble was, I finally figured out he couldn't live the lie. That's when we parted ways. It was right after Buffalo as I recall." Bronc paused for air and a drink.

Heyes leaned forward and locked his gleaming eyes onto Bronc's. "Let's talk about those details."

"Huh?" Bronc stared at him blankly.

"About the bank. The one in Buffalo," urged the Kid.

A slow smile crept onto Bronc's face. "You two are makin' a play for it, ain't you? What is it you wanna know?"

Heyes returned his smile. "Wheat said you got a job at the bank sweeping floors. Cased it inside and out."

"Hell, I'll split fair with you. It's the truth. I know that bank like the back of my hand but, if you want the lowdown, it's gonna stand you another twenty."

Heyes looked at the Kid expectantly. Frowning, Curry pulled out his wallet and extracted a bill. "This better be worth it." He put the bill on the table.

Bronc swept it up and tucked it away. "You gotta piece of paper? I can draw the layout for you."

Pulling out a journal and pencil he carried with him to record ideas and plans, Heyes flipped the small book open to a blank page and handed it to Bronc. The bartender bent over the journal and sketched out a simple plan of the building, labelling the lobby, teller's cages, vault, and offices. Finished, he slid the book back to Heyes who looked it over carefully before slipping it back into his pocket. "What else can you tell us?"

Crossing his arms, Bronc leaned back in his chair and eyeballed his audience. "You're gonna have to plank down more tin."

Heyes scowled but produced another ten dollar bill putting it on the table. "This better pan out."

"Ain't no guarantees in life, Rembacker," chuckled Bronc.

"'Cept death," replied Curry, giving the man his best gunslinger's stare as he dropped his hand to rest on the butt of his pistol.

Swallowing hard, Bronc looked at each of them. "Well, I guess maybe I didn't mention one little problem, but it don't seem like Wheat did neither."

"Spill," snapped Heyes, annoyed.

"Are you settin' us up, Bronc?" Curry frowned. "My friend here gets a bit wrathy when crossed."

Beads of sweat adorned Bronc's forehead and he ran a finger around the rim of his starched collar. "I, er, well, see, it's like this…."

"Like what?" Heyes' face had darkened to an alarming shade and his eyes had turned flat black.

"Um, er, after our stab at it, we thought maybe we'd try again but we found out the bank decided they needed more security so it moved down the street-next to the sheriff's office—the deputies started moonlightin' as night watchmen. There ain't no way you can rob that place without someone gettin' lead poisonin'."

Heyes and the Kid stared at him, their mouths agape. Heyes was the first to regain his tongue. "Couldn't you have led with that?"

Bronc, sensing the worst was over since his heart was still beating, laughed. "Guess I should've, but the last thing I want to do is go back downstairs and deal with that crowd of roostered miners."

"Give me the cash back." Heyes eyes narrowed and his face was hard.

"Nope. Deal's a deal. I gave you what you paid for." Bronc got up to leave.

Heyes rose, too. "You chiseling, horn-swoggling four-flusher. You gulled me."

Bronc pointed at the ten dollars still on the table. "No sir, I didn't. Your ten's still there. Figure I earned the rest." He walked towards the ladder.

The Kid grinned at the man's audacity. "He's got you there, Heyes."

Bronc froze and turned around, alarmed. "I thought you said your name was Rembacker!"

"I did. I also said his name was Hotchkiss."

"It ain't?" Bronc shifted his gaze to the Kid who smiled meanly.

"The name's Curry." A Colt had appeared out of thin air and was now resting in Kid Curry's hand and pointed at Bronc's belly.

The frightened man's hands flew up in surrender. "Now, hold on. Please. I didn't mean nothing by foolin' with you, Mr. Heyes." He slowly reached down into his pocket and pulled out the money. "Here, here you go. There's your cash, every last cent." He threw the money at Heyes' feet but the outlaw leader made no move to pick it up.

Instead, Heyes seized Bronc and reached into his back pocket, pulling out the bartender's soiled apron and tearing it in half. He grabbed Bronc's head and stuffed half the apron into his mouth, gagging him. He used the other half of the apron to bind his wrists.

"Heyes, are you doin' what I think you're doin'?" asked the Kid, concerned his best friend's anger was getting the best of him.

Not answering, Heyes unbuckled the man's pants and pulled them down to his big, heavy laced boots. Bronc's eyes were terrified saucers by this point but the Kid was smiling. He now knew what Heyes had planned.

Heyes shoved the table out of the way. "Gimme a hand, will you?"

The two outlaws picked up the hog-tied man and turned him upside down. They guided his legs over the large stovepipe and dropped Bronc over the side of the building. His boots prevented his pants from slipping off as he dangled above the alley, exposed to the world. Muffled protests emerged from Bronc and he wriggled desperately.

"I'd settle down if I were you," warned Heyes. "You don't want to work that pipe loose, do you?"

The Kid reached down to pick up the cash.

"Leave it. He's right, he earned it," said Heyes. He picked up the whiskey bottle and took a last, long draw from the bottle then passed it to the Kid, who drained it. "Thanks for the drink, Bronc. We'll give Wheat your best."

The two outlaws climbed down the ladder and pitched it over the railing into the street before going down the stairs and back into the saloon. As they crossed to the front door, Delbert called out to them. "Where's Bronc?"

"He was feelin' a tad discombobulated so he said to tell you to close up for 'im," shouted Curry, following his partner out the door.

The two men mounted their horses.

"You know, for a minute there I thought you were gonna throw Bronc off that roof," said the Kid.

"I won't lie, I gave it some thought, but I figured I had a better way to stop him from getting any ideas about collecting bounties. Besides, Bronc did me a favor."

"What's that?"

"He expanded my vocabulary."


End file.
